For Want of a Glance
by Tearoom Saloon
Summary: It needed to be cut off, she reasoned, trying to reassure herself. Still, she was surprised he hadn't picked up on why she was so upset.


Prompt suggested by apedarling: Molly gets a haircut she's unhappy with and Sherlock tries to comfort her.

* * *

It was like a phantom limb: there, but not. Every time she went to yank her hair up into a bun or comb her fringe away from her face, she found herself grabbing at empty air. In the shower, she used twice as much shampoo, twice as much conditioner, trying to run the soap through mid-back length hair that had vanished. A shard of disappointment had broken away when she cut it, lodging itself deeper and deeper into her thick, no-nonsense skin, working itself towards her fragile core.

"You have to watch yourself," Sherlock had whispered, right before they'd charged. "I have no idea if they'll be throwing anything at us. Any and all airborne objects could be deadly, so watch out."

Phosphorus. It had been sticky, gooey phosphorus that had clung to her hair, glowing and slimy, lighting her up like a Christmas tree, a target to enemy fire. Sherlock had prevailed, of course, but in the end, it became a tangled mess.

He had originally insisted on removing it himself, the know-it-all. Failing horrendously, he resorted to cutting it out. Just the patch that contained the chemical, nothing else. She had sighed, making an appointment with her hair stylist as soon as their plane touched the ground. She thought she would be fine with the inches upon inches softly drifting to the floor.

She had been terribly, terribly wrong.

Molly looked at her face in the mirror, dissatisfied. No matter how she did her makeup, nothing about her face _looked_ right. It was too wide with this, too narrow with that, if she pinned her fringe back she looked ancient, if not she looked like a schoolgirl. Nothing fixed how her face managed to stick out like a witch's warty, discolored thumb compared to the rest of her body. When she glanced up and down, the only thing she noticed was the severe absence of hair.

She wasn't about to tell _him_ about her discomfort. He'd just make it worse; he _always_ made it worse. Said the wrong thing at just the right time to make her feel like a useless sod. It was his fault this had happened, and if he made one scoff about her new haircut, she'd skin him.

* * *

It wasn't every day that Sherlock Holmes' girlfriend changed something drastic about her appearance. It wasn't every day that Sherlock Holmes had a girlfriend. But there she stood in the lab, her newfound fringe pulled away from her eyes with bobby pins, the last remains of her once-long hair. Molly was peering through a microscope, no-doubt recording the composition of a fungal sample he'd sent her a half hour ago…he hoped.

"How's that slide coming?" he asked, throwing his coat on a clear bench.

"Haven't started work yet," she said in a monotone, writing down observations on a scrap of paper.

"No?"

She shook her head. "I'm busy."

"Busy with what?" He moved to hover over her, dangerously intruding her personal space. "You've no other bodies to inspect right now."

"I'm going over the Henderson case from yesterday, want to make sure I have everything." Her voice hadn't changed at all. She kept focus at the task at hand, not taking an extra second to look over at him, to smile, to do that little thing with her eyebrows when he flirted with her.

"How are you finding it?"

"The same." She pushed her rolly stool away from the lab bench to the other side of the room, stopping herself to pick into a cabinet. "The dead don't change much."

"Then why check it over a second time?"

"Can't hurt to be sure."

She still hadn't looked up at him. "I wanted to check up with you after the scuffle in Turkey. I have a case to get back to. You'll be over for dinner?"

"Yes."

He made to close the distance between him and she ducked under his outstretched arm. "Busy," she said quietly, nipping over to a half-open drawer.

"Er, right. I'll see you later, then."

"Bye."

The door to the lab closed and Sherlock felt a trickle of confusion leaking through his ribs, tightening the muscles in his chest. He'd forgotten _something_. She was acting too weird, and his misbehavior was no doubt the cause of her discomfort and avoidance. It was only a question of what he did _this_ time.

Dinner itself was a chore.

He was a chemist, not an artist, and was terribly equipped to handle anything but baking. The science of cooking was a mystery, one heavily guarded by the ever-talented women in his life. His mother reigned queen over them all, but none of her ability had rubbed off onto her sons.

Somehow he managed to get a garnished chicken in the oven out of white, plain meat, a book, and a number of things in little glass bottles. There was a knock a second after the candles were lit and the table was set, chicken still cooking. Molly stood on the other side, her gaze down and her posture making her appear smaller.

"How are you?" he asked, taking her coat.

"All right."

"Just all right?"

She shrugged, following him into the sitting room. "Yeah."

He poured her a glass of wine. "There's something wrong."

"Pardon?"

"You've been acting…_bizarre_ ever since we got home."

She crinkled her eyebrows. "No, I haven't."

"You haven't looked me in the eye since arriving. What have I done this time?"

"You? You haven't done anything!"

"Then what's wrong? Something's wrong."

"Can't you just deduce it as per usual?"

"That's an invasion of your privacy and I promised to stop when we first went to dinner."

"You—" she crossed her legs, still not looking at him as he took a seat across from her. "It's me."

"What about you?"

"Have you seen my hair recently?" She gestured with her free hand. "It's short!"

"So?"

"I look like, like a pug! My nose looks too pushed in now, my ears stick out, my neck's always cold—"

"Molly—"

"—I can't make my makeup work anymore, my forehead is too large—"

"Molly!"

"—And I just feel like I'm not as pretty as before." She downed her glass and set it forcefully on the table, not meeting his eyes. Her voice fell in pitch, quivering in her distress. "I look silly, like a child. You don't want to be seen with a child."

Her last sentence flew at him like a bolt of stray electricity. She was worried and nervous and insecure. He could almost laugh that, for a woman who owned so many frumpy, grandma sweaters, her biggest concern about her appearance was her _hair_ of all things.

"It'll grow back."

She swung around, an angry fire igniting in her chest. "Yes but not any time soon!"

"You're being irrational."

"I—_I'm _being irrational? You're not supposed to make me feel worse by stating the _obvious_."

He sighed, standing. Scary, emotional women weren't his thing. Women weren't his thing. _People_ weren't his thing. Yet here he was, and there she was, an orchid among the wheat. "Stand up."

"Why?"

"Please, Molly, don't be difficult—no, _no _do not start with me. Close your mouth, stand up."

She glared grudgingly but did as he said.

His embrace was tight, squeezing the last angry breath out of her and sheltering her in his arms, his body a shield against her reality.

"I don't want you self-deprecating, it's unhealthy. You're beautiful, Molly."

"But—"

He brought his hands to her shoulders, directly looking into her eyes. "Molly, stop."

"Are you sure you still want to…you know, be seen with me? I look like a boy."

He snorted. "No one with your hips can be mistaken for a _boy_."

"Hey!"

"It's true though." Sherlock placed a kiss on her forehead. "And of course I want to still be seen with you, that fringe looks marvelous swept across your brow."

"This is uncharacteristic of you."

"You told me to stop being obvious and to make you feel better." He paused. "Would you prefer it if I would—"

"No."

"Final answer?"

"Final answer is please don't go back to being cocky just yet."

He bit his lip. "Fine. Well, if you plan on sticking around, I have a little something for you." He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small, oblong velvet box. "They were my grandmother's," he said, passing it into her hands.

"This is _really _uncharacteristic of you." She took the box curiously, opening it slowly. Two hair clips sat on the satin inside, both shaped like matching flowers. The metalwork was encrusted with deep blue jewels.

When she didn't speak, Sherlock began to explain. "I figured you didn't have any nicer hair ornaments that weren't pins or combs and now that your hair's short, you can't wear them, but I didn't want you to feel intimidated so I figured you'd like these because they're elegant and classic and are the same color blue as my tie, and your dress—"

"Sherlock, what are you _talking_ about?"

"Mummy wants to see you. She told me to 'bring up that cute girlfriend of yours so I can see her cute new haircut—Mycroft's told me all about Turkey and I don't buy much of his story, I want to hear it from you in person,' and so on. And after what a disaster last time was…"

"I thought your mother hated me."

"Loved you," he corrected, brushing her fringe across her forehead. "You're putting up with one of her inhuman sons, of course she loved you. No doubt she has plans to make a Holmes matriarch out of you."

"But we're not engaged."

_Yet, _he thought, the word ghosting over his lips.

"And what was this about a dress?"

"She went looking for a dress the moment I mentioned those hair clips, determined to present you like a queen."

"How does she know my size?"

"You obviously don't understand my mother."

"Obviously. She seems a bit…"

"—Suffocating."

"—Like you."

"I am _not_ like my mother!" He folded his arms across his chest defensively. "She's much more clinical, more controlling."

"Right, _exactly_ not like you. When are we supposed to visit?"

"This weekend. If you had plans, she's most likely already cancelled them."

"Not like you at all."

He glared. "Don't say that again."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll—"

The blaring scream of a fire alarm cut him off. "Or I'll burn the chicken." He barreled over the table and into the kitchen. Mitting his hands, he braced for the smoke as the oven was shut off and the charred remains of dinner was pulled from the interior and set to rest upon the stove top. He sighed, chucking the oven mitts across the room. "How does take-away sound?" he asked while making a beeline for a chair to reach the damn alarm.

"Better than eating charcoal."

"You're laughing at me, you find this amusing."

"Do not!" she squealed in protest as he caught her around the waist, pinching the spots just above her hipbones. "Think it's funny that I've screwed up, don't you. You're still laughing."

"You're tickling me!" she gasped around her hysterics, his fingers nimbly remembering all the patches on her back that made her squirm. "Sherlock!"

He maneuvered her onto the sofa, pinning her down with one arm and poised to strike with the other. "What have we learned?"

"Don't make fun of Sherlock or he'll tickle you into submission?"

"Not what I was looking for, but yes, that's quite true. Did you think about your hair?"

"No."

"Are you excited to wear the clips?"

"Yes."

"Are you still unhappy about your haircut?"

"I don't see where you're going—"

"Answer the question."

"…No."

"Do you still love me, even though it's all my fault?"

"Yes, of course."

"Do I still love you?'

Her brows knitted together and he nodded. "Yes, I do still love you. Your hair doesn't define who you are, Molly, use your logic." He leaned in, kissing her gently, letting his breath linger over her after they'd pulled apart.

"How does Chinese sound?"

She smiled, arms now looped around his neck. "Chinese sounds fantastic."


End file.
